The Leash
by Sanguine
Summary: A scene from the life of Kenneth Irons faithful guard


WITCHBLADE  
The Leash  
by Sanguine  
  
Ian Nottingham hid his pain as he answered his master's summons. He possessed the uncanny martial art's ability to catch bullets in his hands, but only if he knew they were coming. Today, he had not known and had caught a round in the thigh. It took him only a moment to realize the wound has been meant only to slow him down, and he was set to defend himself by the time his assailants sprang their ambush.   
  
The leg wound had slowed him. He took a knife wound across the ribs and another in the shoulder before he managed to dispatch his attackers. He fled but only to get them to chase him, turning their momentum against them so that he could take them down.  
  
But the wound was no excuse and he was angry with himself. His mind had been distracted, watching Sarah... finding himself caught up not in the supernatural element of her life, but the mundane. Watching her laugh with her partner. Their hands cupped around steaming mugs of coffee and their faces chapped with cold. They seemed so at ease with one another. He wondered what it would be like to share a moment like that.  
  
Sometimes he caught a fiery glimpse of the Witchblade in its ignominious bracelet form on her wrist. An echo of the old avarice would stir in him, but more and more the feeling moved him when she smiled.   
  
The distraction was unforgivable as unforgivable as his current wounded state. He knew if he didn't think so for himself, Kenneth Irons would surely remind him. So he hid his pain as he walked silently into the powerful man's study. He assumed his habitual stance, head bowed respectfully, body alert for any command.   
  
Kenneth stood before the massive fireplace watching the flames lick ancient timbers. He swirled a glass of brandy in his hand, making no acknowledgment of his body guard's silent presence.   
  
Ian held no illusions that his employer was well aware of his arrival. Kenneth had summoned him, but that did not mean he necessarily had a specific task in mind. It could be moments or hours before he spoke and he might not require conversation, but he always required Ian's perfect attention.  
  
The wounds ached. He pushed the sensations far away, hoping Irons would ignore him and not focus his prescient awareness his way.   
  
Dread seeped into his mind, carried on the wave of pain. It was the nature of his service that he must tolerate anything Irons required, but all of his life he struggled with resentment of the control this malevolent man asserted over all aspects of his being. Irons knew this, played upon it and knew too well how to manipulate him.  
  
Kenneth took any opportunity for physical contact, teasingly intimate with these tests of Ian's submission, but it was never a game, it was a test of the depth of Ian's absolute obeisance to his mastery. Nothing but perfect compliance would suffice and Kenneth always knew when Ian had the merest flicker of rebellion in his soul. In those moments, he would rein in his lethal guard and companion with uncompromising demands. These could come as a subtle touch or steely glare. Ian would yield instantly to the cold reminder that much worse was in the offering should he ever display anything but absolute fealty to his lord and master.  
  
"You are wounded," Irons observed. He never turned from the fire or looked Ian's way and yet it did not surprise him that Kenneth somehow knew.  
  
Nottingham did not reply. He fixed his gaze on the polished wood at Iron's feet and made his mind a blank wall of absolute serenity. Sometimes it could deflect Kenneth's attention. Sometimes he could succeed in fading from that sharp awareness to the point that Kenneth lost interest in him.  
  
"How bad?" Irons inquired. Under the pretense of concern was an edge of rage that Ian was well aquatinted with whenever Irons was disappointed in his performance. Irons turned from the fire and his cold blue eyes shone like cut glass.   
  
Ian dropped his head lower acknowledging the admonition in his master's tone. There was no point in lying. Irons would punish him either way, but more so if he tried in any way to obscure the truth. "9 millimeter to the upper right thigh. Knife graze across the left lower rip cage. Knife wound to the shoulder." He listed the injuries in a quiet clipped voice.   
  
The shadow of Irons approach slithered over the polished wood like a mirror image in a moving stream. It was soundless and full of tightly contained menace. He set his drink down and put two cold fingers beneath Ian's chin, lifting his face to meet his cold gaze.   
  
Ian made his features perfectly blank. He purged all emotion and let Irons stare at him without so much as blinking in return.   
  
Kenneth's voice dripped honey. "Well, we'll have to see to that won't we?" The icy gaze was more treacherous than hidden knives or snake venom and it poured into the empty vessel Ian had made of his mind like a sickening wave of pure menace.  
  
He dropped his gaze when Kenneth allowed it and stood perfectly still, waiting.   
  
Kenneth moved around him slowly as if assessing him or rather what he wanted to do with him, like a piece of statuary he was trying to decide where to place.   
  
"Go to the infirmary, Ian," Kenneth said softly. He would not have missed the slight hesitation in his unhappy guard, nor the shiver that ran up the wounded man's strong back.  
  
Ian entered the infirmary that Irons maintained, mostly for the sole purpose of treating his injuries. He despised it and Irons was well aware, having had a hand in insuring that he would, that he would grow up distrusting the touch of any human being and that the prospect of medical care will fill him only with the images of humiliation and helplessness. Ian understood it was all by design, but by the time he matured enough to comprehend it, the damage was done and the lesson well seated.  
  
He faced the glass walled cabinets and assumed his stance. It did not take long for Irons to enter.   
  
"Take off your clothes, Ian." The command was soft, even personable, but it brooked no argument and was tinged with more than a little impatience.  
  
His hands were lethal, his body the same, trained and honed from childhood for speed and accuracy, and yet he was slow at this. He took of his black watch cap and set it on the counter in front of him. Thinking of the day when Irons had unexpectedly appeared in his rooms as he stood in front of the bathroom mirror preparing to cut his long hair. "No, Ian. Leave it long," Kenneth had ordered admiring his reflection and admonishing him at the same time. It was yet another reminder that his body was not his to command. Ian hid his extreme annoyance and set the scissors down. He set them down with a precise movement and placed his hands palm down on either side of the sink where his razor and other personal grooming supplies were neatly laid out, waiting for further instruction. "You may shave if you wish. You have a beautiful face," Irons added.  
  
Ian had locked his eyes on the sink, studiously avoiding the gleaming straight razor and the murderous thoughts that strode through his mind. He could do nothing but remain still as Irons gaze lingered over his half naked body, assessing and admiring with his particular brand of possessiveness and intimidation. There was no privacy from his pervasive ownership and he meant for Ian to remember that.   
  
With measured movements Ian took off his coat and pulled off the black sweater, folding them quickly and setting them beside the watch cap. The layers were his armor, obscuring him and protecting him from the scrutiny he endured daily since he was five years old. The prying cold gaze that penetrated and chilled and was locked on him now with punishing appraisal. Deftly Ian unbuttoned his black silk shirt and undid the cuffs, pulling the soft fabric from where it had adhered to the blood soaked bandages on his shoulder and side.  
  
"Sit on the table," Kenneth ordered. Ian took his hands away from his belt and immediately backed up and easily lifted his body onto the table.   
  
He suppressed a flinch as Kenneth knelt down and began taking off his boots and socks for him. At this angle, he was unable to escape the discerning gaze by bowing his head. Kenneth noted the blood pooling in Ian's boot from the inadequate bandaged bullet wound, with a quizzical expression.  
  
"Tell me," he ordered firmly.  
  
Ian grimaced. "Sniper watching me from the roof across from the police station. They must have been in place before I arrived, knowing where I would be."  
  
Kenneth's grip on his leg tensed. "Sarah?" he inquired with a casual tone that belied the intensity of his interest.  
  
"Unaware," Ian assured, "this strike was against me. The intent was to capture not kill." He was going to ad that he didn't know who they were but he couldn't take the chance that Irons would detect the lie.  
  
Something shadowed Iron's cold features as he peered intently at his guard. Suspicion and contemplation moving like deadly undercurrents. Ian knew better than to try and evade the piercing gaze.   
  
"Does this involve me, Ian?" Iron's asked quietly.  
  
Ian frowned. In as much as it was a strike indirectly at Irons should he be removed from service, the question had more than one answer. "I don't know yet," he answered truthfully.  
  
"Stand up," Irons commanded.  
  
Ian rose obediently, feeling the slick tile under his bare foot from a fresh dribble of blood running down his leg.  
  
"The rest of it, Ian," Irons demanded impatiently. When Ian didn't move, he reached out to undo his belt. Ian made a half move to stop him and then acquiesced guiltily to allow the too intimate touch. Kenneth unbuckled the belt and pulled it slowly from Ian's waist. The slither of leather moving around his body a menacing and unnecessary caress. He remained immobile and pliant, letting Irons test his obedience, though inside he smoldered with resentment at his games.  
  
Irons deliberately turned, making a show of putting the belt with his clothes on the counter as he retrieved instruments and bandages from the cabinets. This gave Ian a moment to take his slacks off. He folded them neatly though the lining of the right leg was damp and crusted with blood. The world was graying at the edges of his vision from blood loss and pain, but he kept control of himself and stood quietly for Irons next instruction.   
  
Irons had him sit back on the table. Ian endured the cleaning of the knife wounds and the slow, too-caressing touches of Irons hands on his scarred and battle honed body. It was not seduction but a test of his compliance and perfect surrender. Normally, the pressure of the invisible collar and leash did not trouble him too deeply. He was inured to the ache inside that he identified as his captivity. But this was punishment and Irons meant for him to feel his mastery and acknowledge it with contrite submission.  
  
Cool, firm hands touched each of his many scars and lingered with unnecessary care on his fevered skin. He kept his head bowed and his eyes down, controlling his body with effort to keep it from shivering and crawling from Irons' touch, revealing his true feelings and revulsion.   
  
While Irons worked on the deep graze on Ian's leg, he lapsed into proficient expediency, cleaning and bandaging the wound after administering a local anesthetic. He had the same look of intense interest he had when examining a gem for flaws or a painting for authenticity. He could have worked to evoke pain, but it only served to make Ian more uneasy that he forbore.   
  
Ian found himself drifting slightly and suddenly realized he'd been caught staring with forbidden familiarity at his employer. He averted his gaze quickly, but not before catching the flash of recrimination.   
  
"You may dress," Irons directed. He pulled off his latex gloves and tossed them into the bin. He did not bother to clean up the rest of the mess, leaving that for Ian to do.   
  
Ian knew that Irons was aware of his discomfort with being unclothed and vulnerable, but he restrained himself from rushing to put his clothing back on. As ruined and blood soaked as the slacks were he was glad to slip them back on.   
  
He dressed hastily, anxious to leave the infirmary. It was then that he noticed his belt was missing.  
  
"I'm not happy with you allowing yourself to be injured in this way. You know that," Irons chastised with false lightness.   
  
"Yes," he answered accepting the blame, knowing it was deserved. His eyes flicked to the belt in Irons hands, wondering uneasily what the older man intended.  
  
"I want you to stay close at hand until your injuries have healed," Irons instructed.  
  
Ian nodded curt acknowledgment.   
  
Irons held out the belt. Ian obediently went to retrieve it. "And Ian," Irons warned darkly, "I make that determination."   
  
He took the leather. The end was buckled over to form a collar and leash. He understood he what he was accepting, even though the rage and resentment seethed inside.   
  
"Never attempt to hide anything from me, Ian. You know better," Irons said. He held out his hand and Ian bent low making his obeisance and kissed it.  
  
Irons turned and walked back to his study.. Ian sighed inwardly. He had not been given permission to be released. He followed at the proper distance, silent and perfectly chastised.  
  
  
  



End file.
